


Too Late, I Walk Alone.

by oldtimeyryan



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Anal Sex, Depression, Johnlock Pre-Slash, M/M, Might become angsty, Oral Sex, Past Relationships, Sherlock swears a lot, Slightly Out Of Character, Teenlock, Thoughts of Suicide, Unrequited Love, Verbal Fight, past self-harm, zombieverse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-03
Updated: 2013-12-30
Packaged: 2017-12-04 04:02:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 18,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/706317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oldtimeyryan/pseuds/oldtimeyryan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>My name is Sherlock Holmes, and I kill things.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: Day I

**Author's Note:**

  * For [IBegToDreamAndDiffer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/IBegToDreamAndDiffer/gifts).



> beta: rosaisanerd
> 
> This is a giftfic for my beautiful friend IBegToDreamAndDiffer, whose work and words has lifted me from a dark reprieve and thrust me back into the world of writing good AUs. A million hugs and lots of love to you, my darling. x
> 
> And as always, thank you to my beta rosa for correcting my mistakes and dealing with my constant nit-picking. I owe you so much, beautiful! 
> 
> More tags will be added as the story goes on.
> 
> And when I say AU, I mean AU. I have tried my hardest to keep all the characters in character, but I have added some things that most of the characters would never do in the canon. If that is a problem, please don't choose to read this.
> 
> WIP.

_Prologue: Day I_

My name is Sherlock Holmes, and I kill things. That is an accurate description of what I do now, as opposed to listening to people four times my age and five times more stupid drone on about things I learnt whilst in primary school. I _attend_ , and I use that term lightly, Baker and Bartholomew Academy: the most prestigious boarding school in Great Britain, filled with idiots and imbeciles. There are precisely three people who do not fit in this category. The first: James Moriarty, the closest thing I have to a friend. He has been what you might call my ‘rock’ - though it is uncharacteristically sentimental of me to say so. Our friendship in itself is surprising, since we once despised each other.

The second: Sebastian Moran, Jim’s best friend and the object of his infatuation. Sebastian is a loyal friend to us both, and an agile fighter. He would protect Jim until his last breath, I’m sure, and me by default. But he isn’t the best fighter that I have seen, not even close. That title goes to John Watson.

John isn’t my friend, in fact we hardly talk; the only time we encounter each other is in the biology and criminology classes we share. Once, despite the fact that the only words he has ever said to me are ‘holy shit’ and ‘that’s bloody brilliant’, he punched David Anderson in the face as the imbecile was about to attack me. Since then he has occupied my every thought, which is (although slightly distracting) admittedly not unpleasant. And tossing off to his image is very satisfying.

You are wondering, as people of your IQ rating usually do, why I kill things. And please note that when I say _things_ , I’m not being evasive. There is simply no other way to describe them. An infection has spread across the entire planet, and something I once thought impossible is happening – the dead are walking. I, as a scientist, have not figured out why this has happened or how it is possible, but I have no time to examine them. It’s kill or be killed these days, and the four of us - Jim, Sebastian, John and myself - are forced to constantly fight our way through the infected to survive.

*

It began like this. It was way past curfew, and only one room in the boys’ wing of Baker and Bart’s was lit from within. Of course it was occupied by the three most hated, feared and (it has to be said) adored students in their year. These boys, at only nineteen, were more intellectually advanced, fitter than most professional athletes and winner of more awards than anyone in the history of the school.

Sebastian Moran lay with his head propped against Jim’s leg and his feet in Sherlock’s lap, with Jim idly stroking his fingers through his shaggy haircut. “Alright... fuck, marry, kill... Hooper, Donovan and Sawyer.” Sebastian grinned at Sherlock, and the boy’s face screwed up in disgust.

“Is killing them all an option?” Sherlock mumbled, and Jim giggled.

“C’mon, Sherlock, play nice!” Sebastian sat up further, raising his eyebrows at his friend. Sherlock pushed his dark curls back from his eyes and groaned.

“Fine. Fuck Sawyer, marry Hooper, and I would kill Donovan without a second thought.”

“I have to agree with you there mate, she’s an absolute bitch,” Sebastian said. “I don’t like the way she speaks about you two.”

“What’s the latest rumour?” Jim asked. “Let me think... last week the hot gossip was that Sherlock gave me a blowjob when we were both sent to the headmaster’s office.. although everyone knows it was because Sherlock said that Gregson had the intelligence of a mountain.”

“It was an accurate description,” Sherlock said, as Sebastian roared with laughter. Gregson taught chemistry to all three boys - although it was usually only two of them since Sherlock frequently skipped chemistry because it was, in his words, ‘dull’. Jim ran his fingers down the nape of Sebastian’s neck and the older boy went silent and shivered slightly. Sherlock glanced at them both, smirking, and Jim sent a ‘keep your trap shut’ glare his way.

“Donovan said that the reason Sherlock’s never in chemistry because he’s got AIDs, but no one believes her any more.” Sebastian informed them.

“Good,” Jim said, his eyes glinting with barely concealed anger. “I could kill her, you know. God, if a fucking massacre happens in this shithole I want her to be first to go.”

Sherlock leaned over and touched his arm. “Jim, it’s fine. Her words don’t affect me.” Jim met his eyes and relaxed a little, then sighed and pulled both of his friends into a tight hug. It was a private moment, just for the three of them, and it was brief but full of meaning. Sebastian stayed curled into Jim’s side, causing a small smile to flit across Sherlock’s lips.

“Hooper would be over the moon if she heard you say that, Sherlock,” Sebastian joked, going back to their earlier conversation, and Sherlock made another face of disgust.

“Just for that... truth or dare, Sebastian?” Jim looked horrified and Sherlock sneaked him a wink. Sebastian laughed,

“Dare.”

“I dare you to give Jim an erection, right now, with only your mouth; and yes, I am going to watch.”

“Voyeurism!”

“Sherlock!”

“Funny how often those two words coincide,” he remarked, getting into a more comfortable position (one that would be certain to hide a potential erection, of course) and motioned with his hand.

“Does, uh...” Sebastian cleared his throat. “Does he have to be clothed, or…?” He trailed off. Sherlock grinned, his expression vaguely reminiscent of a Cheshire Cat.

“His trousers are to come off, you can decide if you want to strip the rest.” Sherlock rested his chin in his fingers. The boys were so close that they had mutually masturbated whilst watching porn together numerous times, so this wasn’t a particularly big deal - however, Jim’s cheeks were blazing scarlet and his chest was heaving. Sebastian unbuttoned Jim’s trousers with shaking hands and Jim sent a half-hearted glare in Sherlock’s direction, who mouthed ‘you’re welcome’ in reply. The trousers were off, and after a moment of hesitation, Sebastian took Jim’s pyjama shirt off as well. “Whenever you’re ready,” Sherlock said, in answer to Sebastian’s questioning look. Sebastian turned back to Jim, licked his lips and leaned in close. Jim let out a whimper as their lips met and Sherlock glowed triumphantly. Sebastian and Jim kissed for a long while, their mouths open and tongues visible; the sound wasn’t one that would be considered arousing, but both boys seemed to be enjoying it. From Jim’s lips, Sebastian moved down to his neck, nipping and biting, leaving dark love bites on the expanse of pale skin; down to his chest, where he licked and played with both of Jim’s nipples; down to the soft spot under his belly button where he nuzzled the soft dusting of dark brown hair before he took Jim into his mouth. Jim cried out, his long fingers burying themselves into Sebastian’s hair and his hips rolling up. The room filled with moans and gasps from Jim as the older boy ran his tongue over him. Throughout all this, Sherlock stayed completely silent and completely flaccid - he could pinpoint the exact moment Jim was going to orgasm, and watching him come undone was an impressive sight. When Jim was done, Sebastian pulled up and kissed him hard and strong before Jim fell back, burying his face underneath a pillow.

“Ya’happy?” Sebastian questioned, wiping his lips with the back of his hand.

“Extremely, but James is probably more satisfied than I.” Jim’s muffled noise of agreement came from behind the pillow, and the other two boys laughed. When Jim’s face reappeared, he was glaring at Sherlock again.

“I hate you, Holmes,” he announced. “You are a massive wanker, and that was the most embarrassing experience of my life.” Sherlock just lay back, his eyes twinkling. “But Sebastian, I _love_ you.” He kissed him to prove his point. Sherlock made a noise of distaste, which caused the other two to break apart and grin at him.

“This was your own fault, Sherlock,” Sebastian reminded him. Sherlock rolled his eyes and got up, crossing to the door.

“Well, with me in the room or not, you two are going to shag until sunrise, and I have an experiment to see to... so, regrettably, I bid you both goodnight.”

Jim pouted at Sherlock. “But we were going to make a night of it tonight, weren’t we?”

“That was until I _stupidly_ caused you to reveal your utmost obsessions with one another.” Sherlock’s mouth twitched into a smile, and Jim rolled his eyes and slumped into the pillows.

“G’night, Sherlock,” Sebastian murmured, kissing Jim’s bare shoulder. Sherlock nodded in acknowledgment before leaving the bedroom. As he shut the door behind him there was a muffled cry, and Sherlock sighed. He would never hear the end of this.

As he snuck through the halls towards his own room, he heard what sounded like a growl coming from John Watson’s dorm. He paused, eyes fixed on the golden glow coming from underneath the door, and watched as two shadows moved across it. There was a grunt and a thud as something was thrown against the door, then a moment of silence. Sherlock reached for the handle and yanked the door open, just in time to see the unmistakable profile of John Watson stab someone in the skull with a knife; the victim screamed, gurgling and bloody, and slid to the carpet with a dull thump. John was panting heavily as he retrieved his knife, the grate of metal on bone a macabre symphony in the otherwise silent corridor. John pushed his light hair back from his damp forehead and dark blue eyes lifted to meet Sherlock’s.

“Oh... hey, Sherlock.” John took a step back from the body and sat on the bed, his legs shaking and his breathing ragged. Sherlock gave him a quick once-over, determined that he was merely suffering from slight shock and bent to examine to the body. There was an intense stench of rot and a chunk of flesh had come away from the jaw, revealing a white flash of bone. The skin was grey and peeling, the hair was falling out in bloodied chunks, the eyes were yellow and devoid of all life. There was no doubt about it, the man was dead. And from the evidence, it seemed like it was the second time that it happened.

“You were fighting him. How?” Sherlock spun around to question the other boy, his brain frantically trying to make sense of the impossible.

“Uh... walking dead...” John mumbled vaguely, looking everywhere but the dead body. Sherlock turned back to the body, at a loss for the first time in his life.

“Shit,” he swore. “Shit, no, this shouldn’t be happening, this is impossible!”

“It’s happening, Sherlock, I don’t know how or why it but it is.” John slumped down against the bed. “The dead are walking, this guy probably came from the cemetery down by that church.”

“How? _How_?” Sherlock tugged his fingers through his dark curls, as he always did when he was agitated or frustrated, but John’s answer was cut off by a loud gurgling moan from the corridor. Sherlock’s head snapped up and John dove for his bedside table, yanking the top drawer open and throwing Sherlock the gun concealed within. Sherlock stared down at the weapon in his hand, but there was no time to think or question the situation - two of the creatures were dragging themselves into the room and there were more growls coming from further down the hall. Shit. The two boys exchanged glances and leapt into action, Sherlock jumping towards the female and John taking on the elderly man. Sherlock took a deep breath, gathering everything he knew about weak points on the human body, aimed the gun at the woman’s forehead and fired. Blood went everywhere, including all over Sherlock. He looked away before the body hit the floor and caught sight of John, who was doing all he could to avoid the grip of the creature. “John, quick, throw me the knife.”

“Bit busy at the moment!” John shouted back, stepping back to avoid the grasp of a decomposing hand and nearly falling backwards. Sherlock swore loudly, pulled the gun up and shot the man straight through the heart. John regained his balance and stared at him. “Jesus, Sherlock…”

“We’ve got to leave here, now.”

“We can’t just leave school, it’s the middle of term!”

“We are the last survivors here, John! Moriarty, Moran, you and myself. Some students will have left the school, and the rest have perished. We can’t stay here, or we will go the same way.”

John closed his eyes, rubbed his face and nodded shakily. “I won’t ask how you know-”

“The school was abandoned during the night. On my way back to my room I passed open doors, bedrooms in shreds, but I was too preoccupied to notice at the time. Of _course_ , it all makes sense now! I was in Jim and Sebastian’s bedroom hours past curfew, I should have realised that a warden would have caught us if they were still roaming the halls. Go to Moriarty and Moran’s bedroom; stay there until I return. Tell them. Go!”

After John left, Sherlock grabbed everything that would be of use to them in the days ahead. Taking one last look at the room, he closed the door behind him and ran.


	2. Day V

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is just getting us into the story, the nitty-gritty will come in soon.

_Day V_

_Snap._

“Sherlock.” Jim’s hushed whisper tickled his ear, and Sherlock’s grip on the gun tightened. He placed a finger on the trigger. The target uttered a low growl, and Sherlock fired. The body crumpled to the ground and Sebastian kicked it aside as he walked ahead of them, torch bobbing in the darkness. Sherlock looked over his shoulder at John, who was holding his gun in his left hand with white knuckles and a heaving chest. Jim walked over to the shorter boy and coaxed the gun from his fingers.

“Are you alright?” he asked. After leaving Baker and Bartholomew, the four boys had stuck together, despite the conflict between Sebastian and John. Sherlock pretended not to notice, tried not to react whenever John made a noise, and Jim acted as peacekeeper. They had stolen some food from the kitchens, taken down a few more dead and fled.

The school was in the worst possible place for an epidemic. Nestled in the highlands of Scotland, a few kilometres from the tiny town of McKinnon, the school was almost entirely isolated and it hadn’t taken long for the infection to find them.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine,” John replied, taking a deep breath. “Just... we’ve been at this for days now, you three have barely eaten and we need to find a way back to London.” Sebastian returned to the group, reaching out and threading his fingers through Jim’s.

“Loch McKinnon is up ahead. Great shot, Sherlock, straight through the eyes.” He pointedly ignored John, who glared up at him.

“Then we go to Loch McKinnon. I will keep watch tonight,” Sherlock said, looking at his companions. “You all need sleep, don’t argue.” He proceeded up the slope, following the piercing beam of Sebastian’s torch and taking down another dead man. His stomach twisted painfully with nausea, but he ignored it and reloaded the gun. The air got increasingly cleaner as they neared Loch McKinnon, and there were no more dead people in sight.

They had passed through McKinnon about three days ago, finding a few survivors; including Mrs Hudson, who was the local shopkeeper and one of the small number of people Sherlock knew well. She had fed the four boys, given them a safe place to sleep and a selection of weapons. She tried to convince them to stay, but Sherlock had to tell her that she was safer alone. He kissed her cheek and told her to be safe, watched her say a teary goodbye to the other boys, and then they left. They stole supplies from abandoned houses and headed east, towards the Loch.

The moon cast an eerie light onto the black waters of the lake, and the boys set themselves up on a smooth, flat area. John and Jim went off to look for firewood and Sebastian sat down and reached into his bag, pulling out a small white box.

“Oi, Sherlock,” he said, beckoning him over. “Better late than never, eh?” Sherlock licked his lips and walked over, taking a cigarette from the box and sitting down next to Sebastian. He took the lighter Sebastian handed him and lit up, staring out over the water. There was silence, broken only by their breath in the cool night air and the occasional cry of a fox. Most animals had caught the infection and had been killed, but some, like Sherlock and his companions, had survived.

“I can’t believe this is happening,” Sherlock murmured, and the other boy huffed in agreement. “Scientifically, it should be impossible, yet it happened. If it’s worldwide…”

“Can’t you ask Mycroft?” “Mycroft is fat and slow... he would have been bitten immediately.” Sherlock spoke his words with nonchalance, but deep down he hoped his brother was still alive. “Besides, there’s no electricity and our phones no longer work. We’re fucked when it comes to contacting anyone.”

Sebastian laughed dryly, taking a drag from his cigarette. “At least none of us has got bitten yet.”

“ _Yet_ ,” Sherlock pointed out, sighing. “I suppose people would call this an apocalypse, and I doubt there are enough of us left alive to repopulate the planet and get humanity back on its feet. This is the end.”

“You haven’t become any more optimistic since we left school, have you?” Sebastian dropped his cigarette butt and ground it into the grass with the toe of his boot. “Sherlock... we’ll get out of this, somehow.”

“Don’t try to console me, Sebastian, it really isn’t your area.” Sherlock did the same with his own cigarette.

“Fine.” Sebastian turned to look at Sherlock. “Wait, have you…?”

Sherlock’s eyes widened. “No. God, no.”

“Good,” Sebastian looked back out over the lake and wrapped his arms around himself. “We’re going to need you around, probably forever.”

“Don’t,” Sherlock sighed, dropping his gaze. “I’m not a hero, I don’t have the calibre. Heroes don’t exist, and even if they did…”

“You’re a hero to me, and to Jim - and to Watson.” Sebastian made a face. “He watches you in awe, when you do your deducing thing. He looks like an enraptured puppy.”

“There would never be anything between John and I, Sebastian.” Sherlock steepled his fingers. “Only in dreams.” Sebastian began to answer, but stopped at the sounds of John and Jim approaching.. They all set up the wood and eventually got a fire going. After a while, Sherlock left to go on watch, and Sebastian fell asleep with his head in Jim’s lap. John looked at them and sighed.

“This has been a long time in the making,” Jim told him, looking down at Sebastian. “Seb and I have been friends since we started at Baker, and I knew there was something more between us... Sherlock just helped push the process along.”

“About Sherlock... he didn’t have anyone for a while, did he?” John pressed, curious about the inexplicable boy.

“No one liked him, including Seb and me,” Jim murmured. “He used that insanely brilliant brain of his to get good grades, but hell was he a dick about it. When Victor came to the school, he was Sherlock’s only friend for a long time. They were inseparable. Then Mycroft - that’s Sherlock’s pompous prick of a brother - told him that their father had died, and he and Sherlock would only have limited contact. Sherlock took it as rejection. Anyway, you know about the Holmes and Trevor relationship...”

“Victor Trevor was an asshole,” John spat. “He had no right to do what he did.”

“Sherlock took it bad,” Jim agreed. “God! If people had been nicer to him... Fuck, I swear, the next person to hurt Sherlock... I’m going to kill them.” John looked up, surprised at the sudden violence in the other boy’s voice. It twisted his features to something almost reptilian. “I could, you know. I could kill them and hide the body where no one would find it, not even the walkers. They’d scream for mercy, but I wouldn’t listen. I’d tear their larynx out to silence them, and stab them until there was nothing left to bleed. I wouldn’t care, I wouldn’t.”

“Jim...” John interrupted, and Jim stopped abruptly. The fierce anger left his eyes, and he turned away. Jim said nothing for the rest of the night. In the morning the sun rose, and the boys moved on.


	3. Day VI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> beta: rosaisanerd

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the wait! Longer chapters to come.

Day VI

John Watson was many things - a fighter, an aspiring doctor, an athlete, a brilliant aim - but most importantly he was a loyal friend. He hadn’t left Sherlock’s side once since his conversation with Jim last night, which unnerved Sherlock as much as it secretly pleased him. John Watson was a mystery, and not one of the scientific sort that Sherlock was more accustomed to solving. He confused Sherlock no end, which (if he was honest) made him love John even more. But this sudden change in behaviour couldn’t have been brought on by the impending apocalypse, which meant someone must have told him something. It wasn’t Sebastian, as he loathed John and the only words he had deigned to say to him so far had been scathing... so, according to the process of elimination, it had to be Jim. Sherlock’s shoulders slumped slightly, disappointment washing through him. He had no doubt now that John did not reciprocate his feelings, but believing a lie had felt nice. And now Jim had revealed a secret, a weakness Sherlock had wished would remain hidden from John, and now he was standing by him only out of pity. John _pitied_ him, and that disgusted Sherlock.

He didn’t want John’s pity; he wanted his heart.

The woods remained dead. No walkers had crossed their path, which meant there was a kill somewhere - the walker’s main instinct is to hunt and devour the innards of anything living, killing whatever would bleed. If they found something already dead, that was one less thing for them to kill and an easier meal. They had no qualms when it came to food.

“It’s too quiet,” Sebastian announced when the group found the road which would lead to McKinnon; and, from there, Baker and Barts. “I don’t like it.”

“Shut up, Seb,” Jim said, taking hold of his hand reassuringly. “Maybe it’s a good thing?”

“It is,” John agreed, pocketing his gun, which he had been clutching tightly since that morning. “No walkers means no shooting, which means no loud noises, which means we stay hidden.” Sherlock looked down at him, his lips quirking into a smirk. John knew a lot about this, which didn’t surprise him. If things were different, he would have undoubtedly been a soldier. Seb made a noise of disgust deep in his throat, which John pointedly ignored. Sherlock walked out onto the road and looked around, swallowing hard when he caught sight of a couple of mangled corpses that must once have been students. John closed his eyes and breathed in deeply, his lips pressed into a tight line. Sherlock and Sebastian cautiously approached the nearest body and Sebastian made a choked noise somewhere between anger and anguish when he realised that the body was of a former fellow student, Angelo Phelps. Seb and Angelo had been friends.

“I am... sorry for your loss,” he said quietly, catching the gaze of his friend. He nodded tightly, and they proceeded to the next person, a girl. This body did not look like Angelo’s; hers was already decomposed and smelt of rot, and half of her head was missing. She was obviously a walker.

“Oh God, it’s Kate…” Sebastian said. Sherlock must have made a questioning noise as he examined her, because Sebastian let out an irritated sigh. “Kate Cooper? Irene Adler’s girlfriend? God, she must have been on of the first ones to turn.”

“If she’s dead... again,” Sherlock said thoughtfully, “how do we know there aren’t more survivors out there?”

“How do we know the walkers don’t kill each other over a scrap of meat?”

“Look at the wound,” he pointed out, “no walker could handle a blade that well, let alone have the mental capacity to scalp one of their own out of revenge. Someone alive did this, Sebastian.” Sherlock stood, ready to proceed back to the rest of the group, but Sebastian gripped his wrist and looked directly into his eyes.

“Don’t try to get their hopes up too much, okay? For all we know, any other survivors will kill us simply because we have food.”

Sherlock nodded, “Understood.” He walked back over to stand beside John, and after a moment reached out and took his hand. John instantly relaxed and squeezed his fingers, which made Sherlock’s heart jump and flutter like a trapped bird.

“Well?” Jim prompted, his eyes purposefully avoiding their joined hands.

“Two bodies, Angelo Phelps - ” Sherlock was cut off by a sharp gasp from Jim, and his friend’s hands clenched into fists as he looked over John’s shoulder at Sebastian, who was examining one of the cars on the side of the road. He took a deep breath before focusing on Sherlock again, who continued, “ - and the other was Kate Cooper.”

“What, Irene’s girl?” John said, his voice tight. It seemed everyone knew of that relationship except for Sherlock. Well, of course. “Shit. Oh, shit.”

“She was already a walker, someone scalped her,” Sherlock said flatly. “Angelo had been torn apart.”

“Wait, someone scalped Cooper?” Jim frowned. “That means...”

“Yes, there are other survivors.”

“Sherlock, that’s... that’s probably a godsend!” John gasped.

“If we managed to find them,” Jim joined in, looking at Sherlock with wide eyes, “They could help us! They could help keep us safe, and we could do the same for them!”

“Sebastian said to be careful. They might kill us because we have supplies.” Jim opened his mouth to say something, but he was cut off by a piercing scream from further down the road. John had his gun out instantly, and Jim was holding the hunting knife Mrs Hudson had given him. Sherlock pulled out his own gun, and the group cautiously moved towards the source of the disturbance - he didn’t notice Sebastian had rejoined them until they were pressed against each other. Suddenly there was a second scream, closer to their right, and they exchanged glances before breaking into a run. They pushed their way through the trees, panting as they leapt over fallen trees and the remainders of various woodland creatures. Sherlock, who was at the head of the group, saw her first; a mousy-haired girl pressed up against a tree, unarmed and staring wide-eyed at a walker. The boys skidded to a halt, all three guns went off at the same time, and the walker dropped. The girl sank to her knees and burst into tears, and John put the safety clip back into place before going over to her. Sherlock scanned the immediate area to make sure there was no one else coming, but whipped around so fast his neck cracked when John said the girl’s name.

“Molly?!”

“J-John?” Molly gasped, looking up at him with wide eyes. “O-Oh my God! You’re alive!” She threw her arms around John’s neck and sobbed. Jim and Sebastian exchanged a look while Sherlock stood dumbfounded behind them.

“Molly Hooper? How could you possibly have survived?” he asked suspiciously, staring down at the girl in John’s arms.

“Sherlock…” Jim’s warning came from behind him.

“I-I-I... I came out here... With, um... Irene... a-and... um, Sally and David... and...” her voice got smaller and smaller with each name she mentioned, eventually tailing off.

“There’s someone else. Who else, Hooper?” Sherlock’s voice got louder. Molly shook her head, biting her lower lip and looking up at him imploringly.

“Sherlock, give it a rest... calm down,” John said, keeping steady eye contact with Sherlock.

“Fine. If you won’t tell us, take us to your camp. Unless they’re coming to you.”

“N-No! I’ll take you!” she cried, and stood up shakily with John’s assistance. She held onto his arm and silently lead them through the trees back to the road. After an hour of walking the deserted roads in complete silence, the group came to a halt. Molly let go of John’s arm and wiped her face. Without saying a word, she took them down a winding path into the trees that eventually opened out into a small clearing.

“Molly?” There was a rustling from the bushes behind them, and suddenly Molly disappeared into the arms of a girl with wildly curly black hair. “Oh my God, are you okay? Jesus, we didn’t know where you were!”

“I’m fine... Sally, um...” Molly moved out of her arms and motioned to the group of boys behind her. “I found more survivors from school.” Sally’s face dropped when she saw exactly who it was that Molly had found.

“ _Them_? Are you serious?”

“Sally, please... I thought you were over this...”

“How could you possibly have thought- ”

“Please, Donovan, this is no time for childish remarks. We are in the middle of the apocalypse. I think it’s best we get along for the time being,” Sherlock interrupted. Her mouth snapped shut, and she nodded tightly. Jaw clenched, she beckoned the group over to the fire and went into one of the tents. There were a few lines of murmured dialogue, and when she came out she was accompanied by David Anderson and Irene Adler. Anderson turned distinctly green when he saw who Molly had brought, and Irene simply stared at Sherlock with a blank expression.

“Where is he?” Molly asked, her hands squirming in her lap.

“Getting food,” Anderson replied, his voice almost as slick and oily as his greasy hair. Sherlock physically had to stop himself from shuddering. “He’ll be back soon.”

“Sherlock, are you sure this is a good idea?” Sebastian hissed in his ear. “We hate almost everyone here. Maybe we should keep moving.”

“We’ll wait here until the other member of their party returns,” Sherlock replied coldly, staring at the ring of stones around the fire pit. There were only two people in the world that Molly would want to hide from Sherlock, and she didn’t know Mycroft... so there was no doubt about it. It had to be Victor.

A minute later, he was proved correct. Victor Trevor walked into the clearing, a dead animal over his shoulder and a crossbow over the other. Sebastian caught sight of him and immediately stood bolt upright, gun aimed directly at Victor’s forehead. John was also standing, his gun cocked and steady. Sebastian looked at John and he nodded, his eyes trained on Victor. The boy put the animal down, then his crossbow, and slowly raised his hands.

“No, we aren’t staying here,” Jim hissed viciously. Sherlock was just staring blankly at his ex-boyfriend, his mind in lockdown. He could hear Victor’s soft voice trying to negotiate with his friends, and their sharp replies. Everything went quiet when Sherlock stood. Victor looked up at him with the blue eyes Sherlock used to adore, pleading. Sherlock turned to his friends.

“Victor and I are going to talk somewhere alone. You are all to stay here and behave.” He looked pointedly at Sebastian, whose gun was still raised. “If you hear anything threatening, you will run. Do not wait for me. Do not fight. Do you understand?” All three of his friends nodded.

“Will you be okay?” John asked quietly, his fingers slipping around Sherlock’s wrist. Sherlock looked at him, his features softening slightly.

“Yes. If you hear anything…” Sherlock leaned down, his lips slightly brushing John’s ear. “Protect them.” John nodded and Sherlock pulled away. John watched him walk over to Victor, sending one last glance towards his friends before heading into the trees.

“Sherlock, you…” Victor started, his voice still soft.

“Victor, don’t.” Sherlock cut him off. “All I want to hear from you is stay or go.”

“Stay.” Victor’s answer was instantaneous. “That doesn’t even need to be thought about.”

“We have food, and our own tents,”

“I saw that.” Victor gave him a small smile, the corner of his eyes crinkling slightly. Sherlock’s gaze warmed a little. That was something he missed about Victor. “Are you sure I won’t be killed in my sleep?”

“I am sure of it,” Sherlock replied. There was an awkward silence before Victor cleared his throat. “So, you and Watson…”

“No, no.” Sherlock knew what Victor was saying. “I would never be able to get someone like John.” “Yes, you would.” Victor stepped closer. He and Sherlock were a similar height, with similar minds. Sherlock had more in common with Victor than anyone he’d ever met. His fingers played with Sherlock’s, and Sherlock didn’t pull away.

“Victor...” Sherlock said quietly, looking into his eyes searchingly.

“If anything, Watson doesn’t deserve you,” Victor told him, and Sherlock’s heart softened. He dragged his fingers up Sherlock’s arms and neck until his thumbs cupped Sherlock’s jaw. “I didn’t deserve you.”

“Don’t ever say that,” Sherlock snapped, but there was no real venom in his voice. He hadn’t seen Victor since their breakup, and only now did he realise how much he missed him. He really needed to get these emotions under control - but there was something he needed to do first. Sherlock took Victor’s hands and held them as he leaned in, staring intently into his eyes before gently kissing him. Victor kissed him back hard, letting go of Sherlock’s hands before wrapping his arms around Sherlock’s waist and pulling him closer. When they eventually broke apart, Sherlock looked down at the ground. “I still don’t forgive you.”

“I don’t expect you to, Sherlock... I was horrible...” Sherlock let him go and turned his back on him, returning to his friends. “We stay,” he announced. The group didn’t look quite as relieved as they had before.


	4. Day VI-VII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> beta: IBegToDreamAndDiffer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the incredibly long wait! 5 months is a terrible wait, I'm so so sorry! As I said, my real life has been pretty terrible, and I'm just not coping well with certain things. But I'm back now, and hopefully it won't be as long for the next update!
> 
> Thanks to Shannon, Tayla, LadyPouncival, and earlgreytea68 for being fabulous people, and mostly to earlgreytea68 for being the solid rock for me to fall on whenever things were rough. (Mostly with her fanfictions and kind words) And thank you to all for you, for your kind comments have helped me more than you know!
> 
> Songs that inspired this chapter: No Rest - Dry the River, Thistle and Weeds - Mumford & Sons

_Day VI_

 “You better start explaining why we’re letting them stay, Victor,” Anderson snapped, glaring at the newcomers. “I mean, what can they offer us?”

 “Weapons. Food,” John said, crossing his arms. “And honesty.”

 “Honesty? You fucker, how dare you—”

 “Anderson!” Sherlock stepped forward before Victor could open his mouth. His eyes openly stared at Sherlock, like he was a marvel. “We will offer you more protection with our four, and John and Sebastian are fine shooters. James is good with a knife.”

 “And what can you offer us, freak?” Anderson sneered, and Victor’s face scrunched up in anger. To Sherlock’s right, so did John’s.

 “You know _exactly_ what I can offer,” Sherlock hissed, smirking lightly. “You’re just too scared to admit it.”

 “You’re a cold-blooded murderer,” Anderson said, his dull eyes boring into the others. “And you’ll get off on killing these things again. Yeah, I get it.”

His words should have hurt, but Sherlock was so used to being told that he was a murderer that it went over him.

 “Good. You’re not as idiotic as you seem,” Sherlock turned to his group. “Start setting up, and do not touch the food if offered. Victor!”

Victor looked up as Sherlock swept around. Oh, he was so elegant. His body could move so many different ways, and that _mouth_ of his… So venomous even when it was wrapped around his erection… _God._ “Yes?”

 “I will take watch tonight, and do not bother trying to find anyone to relieve me,”

“Sherlock!” John protested, holding up his hand. “This is the second night in a row.”

 “When did I last sleep?”

 “Wednesday,” Jim answered for John when he failed to. “Which was four days ago.”

 “I should be fine for tonight, then,” Sherlock turned from them. “If you hear shots, pack anything necessary and be prepared to run. I only ask for my three to attack, seeing as I trust none of you.”

  “Victor’s good with his crossbow,” Irene said, eyeing Sherlock knowingly. “And you can _definitely_ trust him.”

 “No.” Sherlock almost laughed, but it fell dry and instead his voice was hard. “I thought I could.” Victor looked away, and Irene’s eyes held Sherlock’s, so knowing and pulling him in. He eventually broke away.

 “Victor, I will stay up with Sherlock, he may need a reinforcement.” she said, standing and brushing off her almost ruined uniform. Her dark hair was knotted and dirty; nothing like the upper class style knot it was usually in. This wasn’t the Irene Adler of Baker and Barts, whose girlfriend was so open to whatever sexual plays Irene was interested in that month, and put up with her blatant flirting with everything that breathes. The girlfriend that had kept Irene grounded was now dead and Irene seemed to be too.

Sherlock didn’t protest, he just stared at Irene, and she stared back. Victor sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “Okay, fine.”

 “If they run off during a fight and we all get killed, I’m killing them.” Sally said, pointing a finger accusingly at the group before turning back to the make-do rotisserie over the fire.

 “Sherlock, are you okay?” John was whispering in Sherlock’s ear, his fingers gently holding onto his wrist, his body leaning into Sherlock’s. A display of intimacy.

 “Fine.” Sherlock breathed, barely parting his lips. John licked his own as he looked at them, before feeling that he had held on to long and moved away. Irene smirked a little before going to sit by the fire. Sherlock closed his eyes for a while, took a breath and started to set up his tent. He knew he had Victor’s eyes on him the whole time.

*

Night came with no incident. The embers of the fire were beginning to die, and Sherlock was looking at Irene in the failing light. It lit up her features, her high bones, and her intelligent eyes. She was a beautiful girl, and she used her looks and sexual identity to get what she wanted. She really was a perfect half for Sherlock, even if neither sexually wanted the other.

 “You and Victor kissed earlier, didn’t you?” she said softly, looking up at him. She wasn’t smiling now, and her face was soft. “I haven’t seen him look so happy since, well, you broke up.”

 “Yes, we kissed.” Sherlock replied, turning the safety off his gun, before on again.

 “He’s sorry, you know.”

 “Sorry?” Sherlock laughed dryly. “I was pulled out of school by my pretentious _arse_ of a brother who knew I had finally found happiness and Victor decides that a shitty time in my life was a perfect opportunity to betray me and sleep with Charles Milverton of all people? Please, Irene, do not be daft.”

 “You didn’t see him while you were in hospital, Sherlock,” Irene sighed. “His grades slipped, his friendships slipped. He almost drank himself into a stupor. He snuck out to McKinnon and stole from the houses and the pub. They upped security when you came back because they found the alcohol in his dorm.”

 “He deserves it,” Sherlock snapped coldly, “and I would rather not discuss our past with you, Miss Adler.”

  “He never gave up on you,” Irene laughed softly, shaking her head. “Even when he was told to back off, he never gave up. He hasn’t forgiven himself. I don’t think he will, really.”

 “Victor was my friend, my boyfriend, and then my enemy. I have almost died for him once, and if you do not shut up about the past I will do it again.”

Irene’s hands grabbed Sherlock’s wrists and she tightened her fingers. “What you did was as lethal as cocaine, Sherlock. What if you had succeeded?”

 “A gift,” Sherlock hissed. “No more hurting. No more idiotic police tracing my every move, thinking I am going to kill again. No more loving someone and loving them so much you cannot bury your feelings like you used to.”

 “This isn’t about Victor anymore, is it?” Irene’s fingernails were pressing down into Sherlock’s wrist, forcing him to look at her. “It’s not even about your mother.”

 “Shut up, Irene,” Sherlock tore out of her grip, seething. “I don’t know how much Victor told you, but it was _enough_!” He rolled down the sleeves of his blazer and walked away from her, gun held stiffly at his side.

Irene jumped up and followed him. “Sherlock, you can’t—”

 “I will do what I please!” Sherlock snapped angrily, not looking at her. “And I am not going to talk to you about a past you shouldn’t even know of.”

 “You’re being completely unreasonable, Holmes,” she hissed at him, stalking his every step. “Victor told me because he had no one else!”

That made Sherlock spin around, those kaleidoscope eyes glinting in fury. “Victor Trevor had no one, is that what you are telling me? Well, _neither did I!_ ” he shouted, making Irene flinch. “I was so alone, Adler, do you not understand? I had no one. And my time in hospital only proved that was all I had. Alone protects me.”

 “You… You are…” Irene was glaring at him, before she looked over his shoulders and almost screamed. Sherlock spun around and shot the walker directly through the centre of its head. Three more made their way through the trees, their broken snarls and growls threatening them both. Sherlock took aim and shot another directly through the eye. It crumpled down in front of the others, momentarily stalling them.

 “Run,” Sherlock said to Irene, who was holding her gun in front of her. “Irene, run!” They both ran, ignoring the noises around them. When they got back to the camp, the fire was completely out and the tents were undisturbed. They hadn’t heard the shots. “Wake them up, and run!” Sherlock turned around and shot again, close to a tent. It rustled, unzipped and a tired and angry Donovan came out.

 “What an earth…?” she went to yell, but when she saw the walkers coming, she steeled up and grabbed a gun and shot the same walker Sherlock was aiming for. They locked gazes momentarily, and she gave him a sharp nod and proceeded to wake the others. “Salvage what you can!” she snapped at them, as they went from exhausted to alert. John instantly looked at Sherlock, and he just shook his head, before turning and shooting another walker in the eye. John gaped at him as Sherlock disappeared into the darkness; the only thing being heard was gunshots.

 “John!” he faintly heard Jim behind him, but he couldn’t concentrate. What if Sherlock was bitten and he wasn’t there? Sherlock needed him, he couldn’t be pulled away and not protect him. He needed to do this. He needed to protect Sherlock. He needed to see with his own eyes that Sherlock was okay.

 “Dammit, Watson!” John was pulled to face a bloodied Sebastian. “Make yourself fucking useful!” He felt the cool metal of a gun in his hands, and his mind was slowly coming back online. He didn’t notice Sherlock was back with the group until they had abandoned the camp and were on the road, a light rain starting to fall.

They had managed to salvage all of the weapons and food, but the tents were a lost cause. The walkers that had been left alive hadn’t followed them out, but the gunshots would have attracted more.

 “Sherlock, do not do that again!” Victor shouted. John looked up from where he stood, seeing Sherlock standing on the side of the road, an emptied gun and a bloody knife hanging from his fingertips. Blood was splattered across his face and clothes, and his curls were matted and absolutely crazy. His chest was heaving, and his lips were curled back. He looked like a murderer. He looked insane. He was _beautiful_.

 “Oh Victor, don’t chastise me. I saved all of your arses, so for once in your life, be thankful,” Sherlock sneered. He began walking towards the group, wiping some of the blood off his cheek.

 “I am thankful you saved us,” Victor moved closer to him. “What I don’t want you doing is going off into the dark, alone, where we can’t see if you get hurt!”

Sherlock played around with the gun in one hand before pocketing it, and he dropped the knife to the ground. “What would anyone else here care, pray tell? All of your party wish me dead anyway.”

 “I don’t!” Victor snapped, stepping directly in front of him. Sherlock met his gaze, angry and smug all at once. “I don’t want to watch you die and have to kill you again, Sherlock! I don’t want you to go somewhere I can’t follow you! You _know_ what lengths I will go to! Do not stand there and tell me you are going on suicide missions because you think that everyone in the damn world wants you dead, because they don’t!”

The words sluggishly went through Sherlock’s mind, and he felt a surge of a new emotion rising. “What about Anderson and Donovan, Victor? Tell me that.”

 “…As much as I hate you, Holmes, I would rather you alive than dead,” Sally said, holding her head up high. Anderson and Molly both gaped at her.

 “Please, Sherlock, promise us—Promise me that you won’t do that again,” Victor’s voice went quiet again. His blue eyes were locked with Sherlock’s, pleading with him. “Just let one, just one, go with you.”

John had to look away when Victor kissed Sherlock. His chest seized up in jealousy and he tried to steel himself against what he was feeling, but it ate at him, like it just _needed_ to be noticed.

 “We should be moving,” Sherlock eventually spoke, having to speak over the oncoming roar of the rain. Even without knowing where he was going, John stalked off ahead, ignoring Jim’s voice behind him. He ignored Molly when she tried to console him, and he ignored the feel of Sherlock’s hand in his own as they walked.

*

_Day VII_

At least the sun rising the next day brought light to the road. There were more wrecks of cars now, which meant there was some sort of civilisation ahead. John hadn’t spoken once that night, and Sherlock was beginning to get worried. Was he also mad about Sherlock disappearing into the dark? There was nothing to suggest otherwise. His kiss with Victor barely lasted thirty seconds and he instantly went to John and had walked with him the rest of the night. He wanted to be able to read John better, and he wanted to know what he did, and what was pulling him down. But for once, John Watson was unreadable and it was killing him.

 “We need to stop,” Donovan complained. “We’ve been walking for almost five hours, and we only slept for two!”

 “Oh, shut up,” Sherlock snapped. “From the corpses and abandoned cars, I say we are approaching another small settlement. We will stay there and hope to hell that they at least have maps.”

 “And a lot of rooms,” John finally said something. Sherlock’s heart swelled. “I don’t want to hear sex at midnight.” His voice was colder than Sherlock had imagined that it could get to. Sherlock looked at Jim, who was walking behind him.

 ‘You and I need a talk,’ he mouthed at him, eyeing John. Sherlock rolled his eyes before looking back ahead.

There was a sign on the side of the road that told them they were entering a small Highland village called Fort Reay. They were still at least a week’s walk from Glasgow, and three or so weeks away from London. Sherlock cast a sidelong glance at John, whose only recognition was slightly tightening his hand in Sherlock’s grip.

Upon finding the small houses of Fort Reay, there were also three walkers. They hadn’t seemed to have noticed them yet.

 “Victor,” Sherlock hissed, gesturing to them. Victor came to the front of the group, and shot one of them. It slumped to the ground, which caught the other’s attention. Jim moved forward, and met one of them halfway. It made to grab at him, but he swiftly ducked beneath its arms and plunged his knife into the back of its skull. The other turned toward Jim, and Anderson took his chance and dug his knife into the back of its neck. It snarled and tried to turn and grab him, but he pushed it down, and stomped down on its head three times.

It took them less than five minutes.

 “Check all of the houses,” Anderson snapped, eyes fixed on Sherlock. John walked off ahead of him, ignoring any orders he was given. This time, Sherlock didn’t follow. The small streets were empty, and all of the houses without boards were too. Fort Reay was completely abandoned. After at least fifteen minutes of assessing, John found a large house, two storeys high, and looking out of place here. It was perfect.

John walked back to the group, head held high. He addressed only Molly, seeing as she was the only one in the group he wasn’t angry with.

 “I found a house we can stay in for the night,” he crossed his arms. Sherlock watched him, trying to make him look over and just see what was here in front of him. “Follow me.” He set off again, and the group followed along, quiet and pensive. The windows were boarded, but the door wasn’t. They tried it, but it was locked. Sebastian kicked it open, and they were met with the smell of must and decay.

 “There’s something dead in here,” Sherlock said, walking in. The house was dark, the only light coming from cracks in the boards.

 “Of course you’d know that,” Anderson sneered. Sherlock ignored him, and started investigating. The entire lower floor was clear. Sherlock went up the stairs, listening for any noises. There was nothing so far. He came to a door than was half opened, and he pushed it open. It was a bedroom, with a TV going on static. Against the left wall there was a double bed, and on that bed laid a couple.

Sherlock slowly walked over to them. The wall behind them had blood and brain matter splattered against it, and the pillows behind them were also covered. They were holding hands and separate guns. They had killed their brains so they wouldn’t reanimate. Sherlock ran his fingers along the outside of the woman’s hand, licking his lips The scene was so familiar to him, he almost felt like he was 14 years old again”. There was no note left. Another painful reminder of that night.

Almost robotically, he searched the other rooms, which were empty.  He went back downstairs, hands in fists at his side.

 “Is it clear?” he heard someone say, but he couldn’t register whom.

 “Upstairs, first bedroom.” He answered, sitting on the nearest thing he could. His head felt like it was ready to explode, and his wrists and inner elbows flared. Someone was speaking to him, most likely Jim, but the words weren’t making themselves clear in Sherlock’s head. All he could see was his mother. That was all there ever was.

What felt like days later, although it was probably only an hour or two, Sherlock sat up, his mind online once again. “What did you do with the bodies?”

 “We haven’t done anything yet,” Molly answered. She looked fairly pale, and a little bit tearful.

 “Bring them down, we are going to bury them.” Sherlock stood.

 “Sherlock…”

 “Just do as I ask. Please.” His voice broke a little on the last word, another repeat. But that was behind him. He had to be stronger for now, at least. Molly, Donovan and Anderson went upstairs to retrieve the couple.

 “They were supposed to have a daughter,” Irene said when the woman was brought down the stairs. “She must have been stillborn. The name on the room said Rachel.” Sherlock looked at the bloodied, stiff faces of the dead below him.

 “This is what the world is now,” he said. “This is what we succumb to. Suicide or reanimation.” He went outside into the yard. The grass was starting to overgrow, but it was spacious. If things had turned out better for this family, there would be children’s toys strewn absolutely everywhere, generic feminine items lying in the weeds. He came across a garden, with a small cross with the faded letters of Rachel painted on it. There it was.

He went back inside and informed Sebastian where he wanted the makeshift graves to be dug. The rain was starting to fall again, but both Sebastian and Sherlock worked their way through it in complete silence. The others brought the bodies out, and together they buried them both. Once finished, Sherlock stood there with Jim by his side. The rain was still falling around them.

 “What the hell was that?” Jim asked, staring at the fresh mounds in the ground.

 “Sentiment,” Sherlock answered, looking up from the graves. “They gave their lives from fear of reanimating, and through the pain of losing the only child they conceived.”

 “Not the burial, Sherlock,” Jim looked at him now. “When you came downstairs, you… Weren’t there anymore. It’s like the you part of you got up and left. John was trying to talk to you, but you weren’t responding. Victor almost had a fit.”

“Ask him then, because he is the only one who has seen that before.”

 “No, Sherlock, I am asking you, because this is the one thing that you have not told me that happens. What the _hell_ was it?”

 “Catatonia. Their suicides reminded me of the night with my mother,” Sherlock turned to look at Jim. His friend’s face was sad. “I would rather not talk about the repressing of those memories, yes?”

 “Of course,” Jim sighed. “What about not kissing Victor?”

 “Whatever do you mean?”

 “He kissed you, and you didn’t let it last. That isn’t like you.”

 “I am not letting him hurt me again. Besides, I cannot do something like that in front of John.”

 “Did you ever reach a conclusion as to why he didn’t talk to you at all last night?”

 “No, I…” Sherlock stopped. “Oh.”

 “Yes, _oh_.”

 “Jim, I will talk to you later,” Sherlock was already heading inside.

 “He took the bedroom nearest the kitchen,” Jim called after him, smiling slightly. He watched Sherlock disappear into the house, and relief swelled through him. Perhaps now, even with everything that was going on, Sherlock could have happiness. He'd lived so long in the shadows, and maybe, just maybe, John Watson would be that beacon of light which guided Sherlock out.

Sherlock walked into the house and to the room Jim had directed him to. The door was closed, so Sherlock knocked.

 “Come in,” John answered from behind it. Sherlock slowly pushed it open. John looked up, and his features switched between relieved and angry.

 “Sherlock. How do you feel?”

 “Fine,” Sherlock closed the door behind him. John was watching him, sitting on the bed, looking so perfect in the dying light. “We have to talk about… Some things.”

 “Sherlock, we’ve only been talking to each other a week, there isn’t much that we can say.”

 “You need to know some things about me, John,” Sherlock sat next to him. He hesitated briefly  before taking John’s hand. John automatically intertwined their fingers, like it was a source of life. “The bodies I found, they…”

 “Going into shock over dead bodies is a natural thing, Sherlock.” John was almost smiling at him, which made Sherlock feel worse.

 “I wasn’t in shock, John, _I_ don’t go into shock. I was in a state of catatonia. They reminded me of something I have been trying to repress for almost five years.”

 “Sherlock, I don’t understand…” John’s smile fell away.

“When I was fourteen, I killed my mother.”


	5. Reminders

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: Mentions of past self-harming!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so, so, so, so sorry it took so long! My beta and I have been having equally hard times, and so I decided to do my own editing of this chapter so you all can have something to sate you! I can't promise any close updates mind you, but I do have a surprise coming that I'm sure some of you will enjoy! (;
> 
> Many thanks again to Tayla, LadyPouncival, IBegToDreamAndDiffer, Shannon, Bessii, and all of you for the constant love! You all are the reason I am still writing!
> 
> The songs that inspired this chapter are; Broken Crown - Mumford & Sons, Wrecking Ball - Miley Cyrus, Run Like Hell - Pink Floyd, Wishing You Were Somehow Here Again - Sarah Brightman (Phantom of the Opera)

_Five Years Ago_

“Your mother is upstairs sleeping,” Siger snapped at Sherlock, holding the door open slightly. “If you disturb her, do not expect to be out of the west wing for the next week. Are we clear?”

“Crystal clear, Father.” Sherlock said in a monotone voice. He stood at the end of the entrance hall, watching his father leave for yet another business trip. If he didn’t know any better, he would say Siger was having an affair. The door closed behind his father, and the only thing that was heard was the off-tone tocking of the grandfather clock in the hallway. Mycroft was in the east wing, being a pompous prick with his Cambridge studies.

His mother had been locked away in her study sleeping, for months now. She rarely came to dinners, or answered calls directed to her. If depression was an infection, it must have been contagious. Only weeks after Sherlock’s own diagnosis, his mother’s behavior turned into this. It frankly annoyed him to all ends, but surprisingly, his mother was the only person he actually considered to love. And sometimes his father was tolerable, but it was always his mother. And he did want her to feel better.

Sherlock ventured his way up to his mother’s study, which was near the east wing. The door, of course, was slightly ajar. The late afternoon sunlight was casting a failing silhouette of his mothers figure.

“Is that you, Sherlock?” her voice was tired, and Sherlock pushed open the door.

“Hello, Mummy,” he said, his voice being almost less than a whisper. “How do you feel today?”

“Tired, mon Cherie, oh so tired,” his mother replied, hoisting herself up in her chair, her grey eyes fixing on her son. “What about you, my sweet darling?”

“I feel… Nothing,” Sherlock replied, standing still in the doorway. “It’s empty inside today.”

“What about your mind?” His mother had always been proud of Sherlock’s genius, and condoned him to use it at every chance.

“Offline.” Which was true. The medication he was on substantially reduced his working capacity. His mother looked at him, weak sympathy in her eyes.

“Where is Mycroft?”

“Studying, and Father has left again.”

“Your father is a busy man,” she sounded slightly proud, and Sherlock wanted to vomit. “Busy, busy, busy…”

“As is Mycroft.” Sherlock knew he spat out his brother’s name in revolution, but his mother seemed oblivious.

“Leave me, Sherlock, I wish to sleep,” his mother’s eyes were already closing. “And don’t forget my teachings, mon Cherie.”

“Caring is not an advantage. Of course, Mummy.” Sherlock didn’t step towards her, and he slowly closed the door behind him. He heard Mycroft say his name from the hallway, but he ignored it and walked back to his own wing of the manor. The layout of the manor was vast, and Sherlock had a whole wing to himself. Which worked well with his experiments, and their multiple stages. Plus, the various rooms had been subjected to many toxic gases.

Speaking of experiments, Sherlock made his way into one of the rooms across from his own in the wing, and sat at the desk for many hours, completely immersed in his work. It wasn’t until the sun had set completely, and the room was starting to smell did he realize something felt wrong. Like a robot, he made his way out of his bedroom, the feeling increasingly growing. He made his way back to the east wing, and found his mothers study door slightly ajar.

And that’s when Sherlock knew his life was going to change completely. He pushed open the door he knew he closed, and found his mother, slumped bonelessly in her chair. Sherlock didn’t even bother talking. He walked over to his mother, and he didn’t even have to check her pulse. Her mouth had dried vomit on it, and even plainer, Sherlock’s medication was lying on her desk. She had committed suicide using the medication trying to help her son. There was no note left behind either.

Still moving robotically, Sherlock went to his brother’s room. He opened the door, faintly feeling his eyes sting. _All lives end, all lives end._ Mycroft looked up from his desk, and his face went from stony to scared as quickly as it did when Sherlock was diagnosed.

“Sherlock…”

“Mummy is dead,” Sherlock said stiffly. “She overdosed in the study. We may need some authorities, and Father will have to be notified.”

“Sherlock, you cannot—”

“Of course you don’t believe me,” Sherlock snapped viciously. The stinging in his eyes became worse. “Nothing I say is ever true, is it Mycroft? The only thing right is the only thing you believe, the only thing we have ever been told.”

Mycroft’s face changed once more, to one of someone in pain. Sherlock looked away from him, anger blooming dark in his chest. “Sherlock, please, you cannot tell me _this_.”

“Oh, _fuck off Mycroft_!” Sherlock hissed, storming out of his brother’s room. He slammed the door behind him and walked into his room, where he slammed that door. He now knew he was crying, but he wasn’t going to let anyone see. From now on, he would pretend that emotions were non-existent with him. There would be nothing inside, perhaps not even the depression.

At least an hour later, there were forensics in the study, and police officers were questioning Mycroft and his Father was back. Siger looked livid when he saw Sherlock, but Mycroft’s face positively fell. He didn’t meet Sherlock’s eyes. Sherlock doesn’t remember when he did look him in the eyes again.

Siger walked up to his youngest son, eyes red and cheeks blotched. “I told you not to disturb your mother, and then you went ahead and killed her!”

There was a lot of talking then, but Sherlock faintly heard: “Father, Sherlock could not possibly have killed Mummy!” come from Mycroft. Sherlock held his head high, repressing the emotions like he was going to for the rest of his life.

“Of course he could have! He has enough dead things in those damn rooms of his, he just had to experiment on the living!” Siger snapped at his oldest son. Mycroft’s face became a mirror of Siger’s, as Sherlock watched the police storm down to the east wing, and the cool metal of handcuffs as his hands were pushed behind his back. Sherlock’s hatred for his father grew that day.

The questioning went for hours, and Sherlock answered all of their questions truthfully and coldly, snapping at anyone who seemingly deserved it. The police weren’t even being patient with him, and became increasingly ruder when Sherlock’s sentence of murder fell through. Once released, Sherlock stormed past Mycroft and their father, who were both waiting expectantly. He didn’t want to look at his family; he didn’t even want to associate with them anymore.

Unfortunately, though Mycroft caught up with him, and sat with him outside. Sherlock looked past the road, into the slightly misted lights of London, and the cars that zoomed past.

“I am going to enroll in Baker and Bartholomew’s.” Sherlock said, his voice coming out weaker and smaller than he had anticipated, but he didn’t repeat himself. He knew Mycroft heard him.

“I was hoping you wouldn’t,” Mycroft reached into his pockets, and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. Sherlock finally looked at his older brother, as he smelt the distinct scent of tobacco. “Father will wonder.”

“Father can take his _wonder_ and shove it up his damn arse,” Sherlock spat. Mycroft almost smirked, and held his hand out to his side, offering Sherlock the lit cigarette. Sherlock took it, and kept his eyes on Mycroft.

“I would rather it you didn’t leave, Sherlock,” he said after a few minutes, his eyes closing. “We have never been on the best of terms, but I do not like the idea of not having you around.”

“Stay out of my life for the first year, Mycroft,” Sherlock took another drag of the fast dying cigarette. “And do not mention me to Father.”

“Our only contact will be more police questioning, if need be,” Mycroft started to stand. His voice was stiff and cool. “Is that fine with you?”

“I will speak to you in a year then, Mycroft.” Sherlock stood, toeing out the cigarette. He walked away from his brother, and caught a taxi home. When home, he submitted his enrolment to Baker and Bartholomew’s, and then locked himself in the bathroom, and the silver slid _down, down, down_ …

*

_Day VII_

John was silent, his hand tight in Sherlock’s. Sherlock took a deep breath and removed his hand from John’s, to pull off his dirty blazer. John’s eyes went slightly wide, and his brain started to catch up with his heart. Sherlock stood in front of him, and offered both his arms. The parallel scars ran across his wrists, forearms and his inner elbows. John’s eyes began to prickle again, as he ran his fingers over to pale pink scars to the almost completely invisible ones. The pink ones were at least three weeks old. Sherlock was still suffering, and John, with all the time he spent watching him, hadn’t noticed.

“It was an easier escape than drugs,” Sherlock explained quietly. “After coming to Baker and Barts, my father blocked my accounts, so I was without money. And even hiding the razors was hard enough, so imagine having to hide syringes and the cocaine.”

“Sherlock…” John didn’t even know if he spoke, as his head was buzzing, and his voice had gone quiet. He was still focusing on the newest ones. Sherlock was looking down at him, his face so open and pained. “I… Does… Does Victor know?”

“Of course. We were sleeping together, John.” Sherlock tried to keep his voice neutral. Pain was passing through him, and it wasn’t because of Victor being mentioned, it was John and the fact that he looked close to tears.

“I… Hm,” John cleared his throat, and closed his eyes. It was about to start. “Um, I’m sorry this happened to you, Sherlock…”

“There is nothing to apologize for, if it isn’t starting our talking sooner,” Sherlock murmured, lowering himself down to John’s level, his arms still in John’s gentle care. John wasn’t looking at him now, and Sherlock just desperately wanted the calming gaze from him. “My past is nothing but my own fault, John, yet I have a future in mind I wish to capture.”

That made John look up, and his eyes no longer had tears pooled in them. Sherlock watched them roll down his cheeks, and for the first time he could remember, he felt guilt. “Which future, Sherlock…”

Sherlock met John’s eyes, and reached up to wipe his tears away. Once his cheeks were dried, Sherlock stroked John’s cheek very softly, as he slowly calmed down. When he looked back up at Sherlock, Sherlock couldn’t stop himself from leaning up and he met John’s lips. John gasped a little in surprise, but he didn’t pull back. His fingers tightened around his wrists, and Sherlock felt like he couldn’t breathe. John was kissing him, was taking his pulse.

And then it ended. Sherlock’s eyes stayed closed. John was breathing, just inches away, a push of his neck and they would be kissing again. But John spoke.

“Funny,” he murmured. His fingers caressed. “That an apocalypse would bring us together.”

“I watched… I wanted for so long…” Sherlock felt like he was shutting down, that all the gears and working inside his head was going offline, all because of John’s kiss.

“I’m sorry about my attitude earlier,” John’s hands moved from his wrists to the base of Sherlock’s skull. He shivered in the touch. “You and Victor… It’s jealousy.”

“Victor and I can never be together again, John,” Sherlock pressed himself in-between John’s knees, straightening to his full height, their lips just brushing. “Because I, unlike him, will never be unfaithful.”

John moved that millimeter forward, and they were kissing again, John’s hand at the base of his skull, his fingers slowly knotting his Sherlock’s dirty hair, his other on his shoulder, near his neck, supporting him. Sherlock held the bed covers that John was sitting on, mostly for grounding, as if gravity would die and Sherlock would float away. But that was impossible, and he was kissing John Watson.

When it stopped, Sherlock was breathless. John’s eyes were still closed. They didn’t speak. The group outside was chattering, but they said nothing to each other. John’s hands remained where they were placed, Sherlock remained inside his legs. They kept there eyes closed; John being afraid of what he’d see, Sherlock not wanting to see too much.

“I knew that you didn’t kill her,” John eventually said. His fingers were in Sherlock’s hair now, rubbing soft circles on his scalp. “Those rumors were far too… Advanced, like Donovan’s stories.” 

“You never believed those either.” Sherlock opened his eyes, and looked into John’s. There wasn’t much there to see, just an astounding amount of loyalty.

“It was Donovan. I hardly believed any stories she came up with. Especially the ones about me and Mary.”

“Mary… Mary… Morstan?” Sherlock remembered her. He remembered watching her with John, remembered watching on with jealousy, even when he knew they weren’t together at all. “But anyone could see you weren’t interested in her.”

“Doesn’t stop the rumors,” John sighed.

“What happened to her?”

“…She. Was, uh… One of the first,” John’s eyes squeezed in pain. “She came into my room, bleeding. She’d been bitten by something, and I told her to go to the nurse… But she kept telling me, ‘No, I can’t! She can’t fix this!’ So I asked her what I could do… And she left. She didn’t attend classes for the next two days, so I thought she’d paid attention and went to the nurse. So I went to her room… And it was locked. She’d given me a spare key, so I let myself in… And she… God. It didn’t take long. I had to…” He stopped talking, pressing his lips together. Sherlock lifted his hands, and pressed a kiss to his lips. He didn’t relax, but he accepted it. “What if I have to do that again? To Jim? Molly? …You?”

“You might have to kill anyone in our group, John,” Sherlock said, “and I know you will do it, although it will pain you… You will be strong and level headed. A solider.”

“I don’t want to have to kill you, Sherlock,” John’s fingers had stopped moving, although he could feel him shaking. “Not after… Just--”

“You want me to be safe. I can’t guarantee that, but I will try.” Sherlock replied, cutting him off. Only then did John relax. Sherlock began to stand, but John pulled him down.

“Not yet, okay? Just… Just let me…” John made a noise through his nose, and Sherlock complied. There was no more kissing, just John holding Sherlock as close and as comfortably as he could.

“You have really wanted this, haven’t you?” Sherlock commented later. The rain had gotten harder against the window, and the house was starting to get cold.

“Yeah,” John sounded sheepish. “Since, well… When you moved to Baker and Barts. It’s why I punched Anderson last year. I wanted to get your attention.”

“You did,” Sherlock confirmed, pressing soft kisses to John’s jaw. “You have my full attention…” He breathed, just near John’s ear. John stiffened, before releasing a shaky breath.

“We kissed not 20 minutes ago, Sherlock… We can’t have sex now.” John sounded breathless. _Sherlock_ was making him breathless.

“I have wanted you since that day, John, I have _needed_ for 397 days.” Sherlock breathed against his skin, but he pulled away regardless.

“Does this make us... Together?” John’s voice was soft again. Sherlock looked up at him, and then nodded sharply. John’s face flooded with... Something. It was indescribable what his face did, but Sherlock felt his heart give a little leap in his chest. “Good.”

They kissed a little more, before they decided to grace the group with their presence again. Jim looked positively relieved, while both Sebastian and Anderson looked livid. Victor looked... Like nothing. His face was stone. Sherlock ignored it.

The rain continued on during the night, and the group told stories and connected, and everything almost felt normal again. But there would never be normal in the world, not even if this virus is extinguished. But there was nothing that could ruin this night, not even if the world was falling into ruin.

Everything was fine now in the safety of the house. John held Sherlock’s hand that night. And Sherlock had smiled. And John kissed him, in front of everyone. There was absolutely nothing to ruin this night.

*

_Day XIV_

Glasgow came into view. They not long passed the _Welcome to Glasgow_ sign, the grass growing high around the metal poles. The road was wet with recent rain, and abandoned cars lay in the ditches beside them. They dare not approach them, though, as some still had the dead in them.

“Can you believe it’s only been 2 weeks?” Anderson said from the back of the group. “Two weeks of this bullshit, and we’ve seen more dead people than alive ones.”

“You know what the walkers are like,” Molly replied to him when no one else did. “They will eat anything... And if you’re bitten, well...”

“It’s like a cold, except you come back from the dead and eat your friends guts.” Sally finished her sentence. Next to Sherlock, Irene shuddered. He looked down at her. She seemed a lot smaller now, with their conversation crushing her.

“You watched Kate get bitten, did you not?” Sherlock already knew the answer. He could see it, when usually there was nothing to be seen. Irene was always a blank page with nothing written to behold. It was impossible to read her, until; obviously, you brought up the recent passing of her girlfriend.

“Not technically, no,” Irene answered, her voice strong given her crushed body language. “She came to my room early in the morning. Her neck was bleeding. I asked what had happened, but she just shook her head and said ‘I’ll be fine, Irene. I’m just a little dizzy.’ Her neck had been bitten, she was bleeding out, and she told me it was nothing. I tried to take her to a warden, but she refused me. I went to classes, and when I came back after dinner, she was gone. My bed was soaked with blood. I knew that she couldn’t have survived losing that much blood. I went looking for her, and instead I ran into Molly and Sally... They said they couldn’t find any wardens, after they had heard screaming from further down the hall...” She stopped, and shuddered again.

“We found Victor and David leaving the school. They told us that they’d seen Gregson get attacked by Janice and Ezra... They’d eaten his stomach in front of them. They ran into the outdoor sports storage, grabbed weapons and ran. We found Kate just before you found us.” Sally inputted.

“You were right, Sherlock,” Sebastian said from behind him. “She was one of the first.”

“Of course I was right.” Sherlock said. John snorted from next to him. Sherlock hid a grin. Irene smiled a little, but she just looked so tired, like she would never be properly happy again.

Most of the walk into the city was quiet, much like their walk from Fort Reay. They’d had to leave two days afterwards, after they were attack by a group of walkers. They had all gotten out, thankfully, with all their food and weapons. Night was dangerous for them, but they camped out in the safe cars. Hopefully, for now, Glasgow would be safer.

The city was dead. Cars lay abandoned, doors and windows of all the buildings boarded. The luckiest thing for them was there were no walkers around.

“We can’t be the only ones in fucking Glasgow.” Sebastian said as they walked.

“For all we know, we could be,” Sherlock said. “As Anderson said, we have seen more dead people than alive. But just in case, be on your guard.” Beside Sherlock, John held his gun in his left hand. Such the solider.

Everyone jumped to attention when someone stepped out in front of them. Someone very alive. They were in shadow, so features were hard to read. Every weapon on hand was raised, and the person laughed softly.

“There is no need for that.” they spoke, and Sherlock’s heart stuttered to a stop in his chest. He clicked the safety off his gun and put it slowly on the ground.

“Sherlock...?” John sounded concerned. Sherlock ignored him, and walked forward slowly.

“Mycroft?”

The figure stepped out of the shadow, smiling grimly. “Hello, Sherlock.” Mycroft Holmes replied.


	6. Day XIV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: Thoughts and mentions of suicide and previous self-harming. And dubious consent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm trying to get these more frequent, but it does not seem to be working... So, apologies again. This is the longest chapter yet, by memory, so enjoy!

_Day XIV_

“Bullshit!” John snapped, cocking his gun, which was raised at level to Mycroft’s head.

“Dear me, _Mr. Holmes_ , dear me,” Jim said, voice sly and cold. Sebastian also levelled his gun with Mycroft. Sherlock instantly stood in front of his brother, facing his group.

“This _is_ my brother. Unfortunately.” Sherlock announced, hands held up in front of him. Mycroft scoffed behind him. John looked unconvinced and slightly sick.

“There are more of them!” Anderson groaned to Sally, who laughed a little.

“Well, then there is more to love.” another voice said, and then Sherlock groaned.

“Why the hell are you here?” he snapped, turning around. Greg Lestrade stood next to Mycroft, wiping a bit of blood off his cheek. He smiled wryly.

“I was with Mycroft when it happened,” Lestrade said, “and I suggested we come look for you.”

“I don’t need a handler!” Sherlock complained, which made John lower his gun slightly. “I can do perfectly fine on my own!”

“I beg to differ...” someone commented behind their hand. Sherlock didn’t even turn to offer a rude gesture. Mycroft shook his head.

“He is not here to coddle you, and nor am I. Our first concern was you when this started.”

“What, the British Government couldn’t stop this?” Sherlock sneered. “Lower your guns, boys, or I will make you.”

Sebastian and John both clicked the safety back on the gun, and the group let their defences down. Mycroft’s jaw tightened. “We didn’t receive notice this had happened until the Prime Minister was found.”

“Dead?”

“Turned,” Mycroft replied coolly. Lestrade shook his head slightly.

“What about the Queen?” John piped up. Sherlock resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

“No word, although the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge...” Mycroft didn’t continue. “Come. We have a safe house in the city.”

“How long have you been here?” Sherlock asked, motioning the group on. Lestrade answered when Mycroft didn’t.

“I don’t know, about three days? We took one of the cars on the side of the road and ran it until there was no fuel left.”

“Pity, we could have used that to get to London,” Jim said in Sherlock’s ear. Sherlock smirked a little.

The city of Glasgow was dead. Cars lay abandoned on the road, rubbish bouncing along the damp pavement with the slight breeze. Some smaller shops were boarded up, and some of the windows in many of the buildings were smashed, with dried blood and strips of skin caught on the shards. Every footstep they made seemed to echo, and so they tried to keep their walking quiet as to not attract unwanted company. No one spoke, which added to the deathly ambiance of the entire scene.

The group walked the streets, the smell of rot stirring in their stomachs. As they advanced further, they found bodies. Men, woman, children were all strewn around, rotting, torn apart, and completely forgotten. Sherlock closed his eyes for a minute, reminded of the suicide victims they buried. That felt like a lifetime ago.

A strangled growl broke the silence. Molly uttered a small gasp from behind Sherlock, and he turned back to look at her. She pointed her finger, which was shaking. Everyone followed it, and all eyes rested on a child. It rested on its stomach, its hands reaching out to the group, its fingers flexing slightly. It growled again, and heaved its little body forward. It had one leg, and where the other one was supposed to be was bleeding slowly, leaving a dark trail. It snapped its jaw and growled again, although it sounded akin to a cry.

“We can’t leave him...” Molly whispered, eyes filling with tears. Sherlock stepped forward, slipping his hand around Jim’s blade.

“Sherlock, what are you doing?” he hissed when he felt Sherlock’s touch.

“Putting the thing out of its misery,” Sherlock said coldly. Molly watched him approach, and covered her mouth to muffle her sobs. Sally slipped her arm around the other’s shoulders, her lips set together.

Sherlock knelt in front of the biting child, face flat and emotionless. The thing growled again, although it sounded even more like a choked cry of terror. Sherlock lifted its face slightly, and held it in place. It squirmed against his grip, and cried again. Sherlock lifted the knife and stabbed the child through the eye, piercing its brain. The walker twitched slightly, and then went silent. No one spoke again; the only sound they heard was Molly’s soft crying. Sherlock stood, wiping the blade on his trousers. He handed it back to Jim, and then started walking again.

John stared at him, and then the dead child, and then back at Sherlock, before walking forward. He didn’t quite believe what he just saw. Sherlock just stabbed someone, a child, which wasn’t causing them any harm with such ease and composure. John believed what Sherlock had said in the house, without a doubt, but after witnessing what Sherlock just did... He shook his head, expelling the thoughts. Sherlock wasn’t a murderer. Not him. Never.

“That was quite smooth.” Mycroft commented later, making the group turn left. Greg almost bounded off, gun by his side.

“Hm?”

“Killing the child. You were the only one making a move to do it.”

“Child nonetheless, it was one of those... Things. Any one of them is a threat to us.” Sherlock didn’t look at his brother, just watched the slight sway of his hand as he walked next to him.

“It would have rotted due to starvation.” Mycroft commented. His fingers brushed Sherlock’s hand, very slightly. The show of comfort was almost too much, for both of them. Sherlock and Mycroft hadn’t had flesh contact with each other for three years.

“No. They don’t die again, unless their brains are destroyed.” Sherlock hung his head. Mycroft sighed gently.

“In that case, you did what none of us could.” Mycroft replied, and then he stopped. “This is where we stay.”

The safe house wasn’t a house at all. It looked to be an abandoned hotel. Sherlock groaned. “Of course you need luxury in the middle of an apocalypse.”

Greg appeared out of nowhere and quirked a smile, and pushed open the door. “The first three floors have been cleared out, but you’ll all have to use the stairs. Finding ammo is hard here, but I think maybe the police stations should have top ups. The kitchen has food, although most is rotten. Also, all safe rooms have been propped open since there are no room keys. Close the doors when you sleep, but keep them open when you leave.” He walked in and everyone followed, murmuring about their surroundings to themselves. Sherlock, admittedly, was impressed with their set-up they had.

The lobby was lit only by the weak sunlight streaming in through the gaps between the boards. The floorboards were dark, the walls a bohemian black and white design and abandoned luggage lay everywhere.

“This is... Amazing.” John breathed softly to Sherlock, who was still observing the lobby.

“Far better than any previous accommodations, yes,” Sherlock agreed.

“Alright, I think it’s best if you all buddy up and choose a room. Mycroft and I are sleeping in room 1895. First floor, for all those who don’t know.” Greg grinned. John took Sherlock’s hand instantly.

“Let’s find a room away from everyone else, yeah?” His voice was low, and Sherlock could already tell they needed to have a talk about the child.

Everyone walked to their separate rooms, and Sherlock and John ventured up to the third floor. As said, all the doors were propped open, apart from some.

“How do you think they got them open without the room keys?” John questioned, slowly moving up the hallway.

“A lot of them have bloodstains outside them. I suspect a few walkers were caught in the doors, and the unopened ones still have walkers inside.”

“That’s pretty much what the guy said, what’s-his-name...”

“Lestrade. He used to help Mycroft looks after me, before I went to Baker and Barts.”

John made a soft noise. “Sherlock, here.” Sherlock turned to look at John, and went towards the room gestured. It was plain, like a hotel should be. It only had a double bed, and a small adjoining bathroom with a combination bath and shower. A large window overlooked the street below them, and Sherlock watched as a wayward walker stumbled past through the puddles of the rain.

John put himself on the bed, feeling the mattress. “I haven’t been able to sleep on something this comfortable in... God, years.”

Sherlock went back to the bathroom without answering. He stood to take a piss, and he looked at the shower. He could imagine he and John there together, kissing hard and aiming for nothing but the orgasm of the other. John would fall to his knees; the bath was big enough for it, and suck Sherlock off, doing things with his mouth even Victor wasn’t capable of.

Sherlock flushed the toilet, thanking bodily functions for not having an erection, cleaned his hands and then he stared at his face in the mirror. If he hadn’t of looked like a heroin addict before, he certainly did now. His hair was greasy and lank, his eyes sunken in and cheeks gaunt. He splashed water over his face and sighed, and walked out of the bathroom. John offered him a small smile from the bed.

“You wanted to ask questions about the child.” Sherlock sat next to him, looking at the wall across from them. John sighed, and took Sherlock’s hand.

“No. Yes. Fuck,” he groaned. “It’s just... You did it without batting an eyelid. A kid, Sherlock.”

“What good would it have done, leaving it?”

“It was done for anyway. It was obviously starving, and it had lost a leg. It wasn’t going anywhere.”

“And it could have found food, or strength. Every dead one is a good one.” Sherlock turned his head completely from John. He sighed, and rubbed Sherlock’s knuckles.

“I’m not berating you. It was a brave thing to do.” He kissed the held hand. Sherlock looked at him, eyebrow raised slightly, and John pulled Sherlock down with a soft tug on the hand, and met his lips. The kiss was quite chaste, and fairly shy, like as if John didn’t know if this was the right thing to do. Sherlock returned the kiss, twisting his hands so to intertwine his fingers with John’s.

They were interrupted by a knock on their closed door, and then a soft voice. “Uh, John? Sherlock? It’s Victor. Mycroft wants a word with Sherlock...”

Sherlock flinched out of the kiss, and John looked at him with eyes of concern. Sherlock just gave his hand the slightest squeeze before pulling away and opening the door.

Victor stood there, his eyes downcast. Sherlock swallowed his sympathy, and reminded himself that his... John was just behind him on a bed. “How did you find our room?”

“I followed you, and Mycroft followed me. He wants to speak with you about something.”

“We’ve spoken enough already today,” Sherlock replied, irritated. Victor looked up then, a small smile on his lips.

“Do you remember,” he licked his lips. “when we were 16? It was four months after your year of no contact, and Mycroft was texting you nonstop? And you called him at 2 in the morning, when I had snuck into your room because I promise if you didn’t skip Chemistry I’d suck your dick?”

Sherlock let himself smile. That was when he thought he was getting better, that he was no longer under suspicion for his mothers suicide, that he would die with Victor by his side. “I left him a voicemail to say that I was preoccupied with my studies and getting frequent blowjobs. You made me moan while I was doing it.”

“Two weeks after that, you got another phone call. We were in English, and Moran was heckling you and you told him that–”

“That his mouth was better suited to sucking Moriarty off than flinging useless insults at me.”

Victor laughed a little, shaking his head. “Then Ezra came and said you had a family crisis and your brother was on the phone,” he sobered automatically. “You wouldn’t leave without me coming with you. I watched you go numb. You already knew what it was, didn’t you?”

“It was... Out of the blue, but I expected it,” Sherlock stepped out of the room, shutting the door behind him. “Well, half of it.”

“Your face when Mycroft told you... It still haunts me,” Victor closed his eyes. “I never thought...”

“Victor.” Sherlock interrupted. His eyes opened again, and he sighed.

“Yes, I’m sorry,” Victor turned from him. “I’ll let you go alone?”

“Victor,” Sherlock repeated, his voice flat. Victor sighed, his shoulders slumping in defeat. “Come with me.”

“Why? I’m only the messenger.”

“Oh, so now you’re defensive?”

“Sorry, I forgot you hated me and you’re fucking Watson for a minute. Won’t happen again.” Victor snapped, his eyes opening in fury.

“My word, your mood swings are worse than mine,” Sherlock lowered his voice as Victor’s rose. “And John and I are not fucking.”

“Yet.” Victor snapped. Sherlock felt a surge of anger in his chest.

“You are no saint, Victor Trevor, and you have no right to be jealous. We have not been in a relationship for three years.”

“Three years I regret not being with you! I told you that what happened with Charles was an accident!”

“Yes,” Sherlock agreed. “An accident you continued for four months after I came back to school.”

Victor’s face reddened. “Charles blackmailed me. Either I continue the relationship or both our pasts are exposed to the school.”

“I’m surprised at you, Victor. It took you three years to think up some bullshit excuse. Usually you’re faster than that.”

Sherlock thought Victor was going to punch him. Instead, he just slammed Sherlock against the wall. “You can tell if I am lying to you or not, Sherlock.”

“We are not twelve years old anymore, Victor. Excuses like that don’t work anymore.”

“It’s not an excuse!” Victor pinned him there, and his blue eyes burned. And Sherlock saw that he wasn’t lying.

“Why did you not tell me this before?” he hissed. All the emotion he had held down, refused to let anyone see after his and Victor’s split rose to the surface.

“Was there a point?” Victor laughed dryly. “I love you, Sherlock. I never stopped loving you. I still _want_ you.”

“How is what we did any different than what you did with Charles fucking Milverton?’ Sherlock replied venomously. Victor flinched. “Sex is sex, Victor. You were fucking Milverton up until the day the infection hit the school.”

“I never loved Charles! I stopped having sex with him when Irene told me you were in hospital!” Victor yelled. “Sex with him was just that, sex! But with you... With you it was making love, it was the stars aligning and the earth stopping moving and all that romantic fucking bullshit. You’d touch me and I’d stop breathing. With him, it was just like my fath—”

Sherlock just felt everything stop. He stopped Victor’s sentence and kissed him. And not the chaste kisses they had shared in the forest when they found Molly, but rough, deep kisses that meant so much more. His confession was the most truth he had heard out of anyone in weeks, even before this entire debacle with the walking dead started.

Victor was the first to end the kiss, despite how it felt. His eyes were shining, and he just shook his head and laughed again. “I love you.” he repeated, stroking his fingers across Sherlock’s cheek.

Sherlock didn’t say anything in reply. He just watched Victor’s every move, his heart refusing to slow down. When the silence became almost unbearable, Sherlock spoke one word. “Mycroft,” he uttered, making Victor push back.

“Of course, sorry,” Victor blushed and looked down, and moved away from him. “Will... Will I see you afterwards?”

“Perhaps,” Sherlock licked his lips, and then, is if a promise, pressed his lips to Victor’s forehead. He walked away before he could comment, his lips burning with passion and his head with guilt and regret. He went down the stairs, flattening his face into the cool mask, and trying to delete what had happened, but he somehow couldn’t.

Finding Mycroft and Lestrade’s room wasn’t that hard, and Sherlock was almost revolted by what he saw when he walked in. “My God, do you ever stop?”

Mycroft and Lestrade broke away from each other, Mycroft having the decency to look abashed. His hair was a mess, and his lips shiny and swollen. Greg’s cheeks were slightly flushed, and he stood.

“Raincheck?” he asked, running his hands through his own hair. Mycroft cleared his throat and nodded. Greg quickly left the room, sliding the door closed behind him.

“What do you want?” Sherlock snapped when the door closed. “You didn’t call me here to give me lessons on sex, did you? I’m fairly sure I know more about that than you ever will.”

Mycroft glared at his brother. “No, I want to _talk_ to you. I have not seen you in years, Sherlock.”

“Oh good, less problems for you then,” he hissed with bite. Mycroft groaned, actually _groaned_ in defeat.

“Do you not understand that I missed you?” Mycroft dropped the matching mask he had to his brother, and his face tightened in grief. “It was three years, Sherlock. I never wanted it to go that long. I was worried everyday, that I would receive a call from that school of yours saying you had been found dead in your dormitory.”

Sherlock scoffed and turned from Mycroft, looking at the room. It was very much the same as his and Johns, although it looked more lived in and didn’t smell of death. They had minimal natural light coming in, and unlit candles littered the room. Bloodstains covered some of the carpet, as did half empty suitcases. He shook his head before turning back to Mycroft.

“You could never have understood, Mycroft, how much it meant to be away from that house all those years,” Sherlock began, “and how it felt to be away from Siger, away from you. I hardly thought of you at all after I was in hospital. Funny, isn’t it? You as much ruined my life as Victor and Mother did.”

“Victor, the one who you were just kissing not five minutes ago?” Mycroft laughed drily.

Sherlock paled. “Don’t. Don’t you dare.”

“I thought you were with John Watson. He certainly thinks you are.” Mycroft held his brother’s cold gaze, matching it twofold.

“Yes, I am.” Sherlock replied, stepping closer to Mycroft. His fists clenched slowly.

“Yet you kiss Victor Trevor behind his back,” Mycroft mused. “The boy who got you hospitalised. And then John Watson, the boy who could save your life. He certainly would know how.”

“What do you know of John? You didn’t know he existed until today!”

“I researched your friends, Moran and Moriarty. And there was John Watson’s name. Lost his father at seven, and had a surviving mother, Sue, until he was 14. She died of alcohol poisoning, of course. He has a sister, Harriet, 20. Or had. Who knows.”

“Stop it,” Sherlock ordered, voice rough. “Stop it now.”

“After the death of his father, his mother’s drinking spiralled out of control. And it didn’t fare well,” Mycroft continued as if Sherlock didn’t speak. “Emotionally and physically abused by her in her drunken state, his aunt sent he and Harriet to Saint Baker and Bartholomew’s Academy, yet she dropped out after two terms. From what I heard, he saved her from the same fate as their mother. Fascinating story he has.”

Sherlock lashed out, punching Mycroft in the jaw. Mycroft shut up, his eyes burning, but not in anger but in sadness. Sherlock stepped back, the wall around his emotional state cracking. “Don’t.” he repeated.

“Are you attracted to those with abused pasts, Sherlock?” Mycroft asked. He was pushing him now. “Are you attracted to those who are most likely to be hurt about your being able to kill with ease?”

“Do not bring up the child, or any of the others, Mycroft!” Sherlock yelled. “It is survival! I am trying to live!”

“Coming from the one who was constantly wanting to die.” Mycroft’s words were meant to wound, and they did. The wall inside of Sherlock broke down and he said nothing as he fled the room.

He stalked past Victor, who had heard the yelling and came to investigate. “Sherlock—”

“Don’t touch me,” Sherlock fumed, heading for the doors. He had made it to the street when Victor grabbed his wrist.

“Sherlock.” Victor pulled him back.

“I hate him!” Sherlock turned to him, his chest heaving. “I hate him! How has he not died yet? Why hasn’t he?”

“Sherlock, babe...”

“He just _knows_ talking to me will set me off!” Sherlock spat in his face. “I’ll kill him myself! All these years... I will do it...”

“Sherlock, calm down.”

“Calm down?” Sherlock tore away from Victor. “Oh, fuck off!”

“You know I can’t do that,” Victor held up his hands, like he was giving himself up. “and that I will not leave you alone.”

“You’re a fucking fool,” Sherlock seethed, facing him again. “Should I kill you too? Or maybe you both, and then myself,” he laughed, although it was cold. “Save everyone the trouble of dealing with me. Funny, since no one wants to.”

“Sherlock!” Victor snapped. Sherlock went quiet instantly, his fingers twitching slightly at his side. “Listen to yourself! You’re not going to kill yourself, or me, or your brother. Okay? Breathe in for me, and calm down.”

Sherlock scoffed, but he didn’t say anything more. To humour Victor, he began the tedious breathing exercises Victor introduced when they were together. They had worked before, in the very distant past. He really wasn’t at all surprised when he began to feel calmer, although the anger had surpassed, and the grief and interminable darkness had set in deep in his head and his chest. He felt like crying, but he roused himself. No. He had promised, he had _disciplined_ himself to not cry, never again.

“Better?” Victor’s voice was soft, and he held his arms out now. “Come here, love.”

Sherlock complied, walking forward and then slumping bonelessly into his arms. “He makes me want to kill myself, Victor. What type of brother is he?”

“One who doesn’t understand you at all,” Victor kissed the top of his head. “Come on inside. I’ll get you a towel, okay? Just like old times.”

Sherlock didn’t argue. In his mental state, reliving the past with Victor seemed like a very good idea indeed.

The lobby was empty when they went back inside, although someone had left all the candles lit. Sherlock and Victor walked into an opened room, apparently freshly cleared out. Victor shut the door behind them, and walked into the bathroom.

“It’s great when hotels have water reserves,” he announced as he wet a towel. “Usually this would all just turn off, but apparently that’s not the case here.” He came back out, holding the damp towel and sat next to Sherlock, pressing it to his forehead and his neck. They were silent, Sherlock just focusing on keeping his heart rate down. It was a while before Victor spoke again, and when he did he lowered the towel. “Alright?”

“Yes, I think I should be,” he went to stand. “Thank you for the help, Victor.” He barely made a step before Victor slid his hands around Sherlock’s waist.

“Don’t... Go yet. Please,” his voice was a husky whisper. “ _Please_.”

Sherlock let himself be held as Victor held him, and he let himself be kissed when Victor kissed him. Victor slowly pushed him to the bed, so that he lay on his back and Victor straddled his thighs. He let himself moan when Victor nibbled his jaw, and he let himself be grinded against as Victor got hard. His mind was not in time with the rest of him. He could not summon the strength to stop him.

Although when Victor started taking off his clothes, Sherlock stopped him. “No. Victor, we can’t.”

Victor looked down at him, his eyes wide and pupils blown, his lips plump and shining. He took off his jumper and shirt, and laid them on the ground. “Sherlock... We can. You said you’re not fucking Watson...”

“This isn’t about John,” Yes it is. “This is about our... Situation.”

“We’ve done it without condoms loads of times,” Victor smirked, the slow sexy one reserved for when he and Sherlock were in bed. Sherlock made to push him off more.

“Victor, please,” Sherlock murmured. “Not now. This isn’t what you want from me now.”

“Yes, it is,” Victor leaned down and kissed him again, resisting Sherlock’s efforts. His heart and cock sang with the pleasure of being kissed again, and his mind and emotions went at war. His body’s needs won out, and he felt his every nerve burn with fire and his blood flood his cock. Sherlock stopped fighting, and rose to meet each grind, and bite Victor’s lips whenever they met. His hands skimmed slowly up Victor’s bare back, as Victor’s hands went down, pushing the blazer back and lifting his shirt. “I want you... God, dammit...”

“Get on with it,” Sherlock snapped, hoping it sounded lust-filled, not regret-filled. Apparently the former, because Victor made quick work of the blazer and the shirt buttons. As Sherlock’s emotions became darker, Victor’s want became hotter, and eventually, both were naked and intertwined.

Victor pulled back from his work of Sherlock’s neck, and pressed his hips down, so that both erections were pushed together. Sherlock moaned softly, the pleasure moving through him with each little push Victor made.

“I wish I could fuck you,” Victor whispered, his pushes more frequent down. “But I guess I can get you to come by sucking you off...”

Sherlock grabbed him, ready to tell him to stop again, but Victor took that as positive reinforcement and moved down Sherlock’s body, placing kisses everywhere he went. Sherlock dropped his hands to the bed, feeling himself give in and weaken to the touches. Victor didn’t hesitate in taking Sherlock into his mouth. The walls in Sherlock’s head collapsed as Victor moved his mouth along his cock. It had been years since someone else had touched him like this, and the last person to do was the person doing it now.

Victor was very good at fellatio. He knew just where to lick and just how to suck. He knew what would make Sherlock grab his head and fuck his mouth. And he knew how to draw an orgasm from Sherlock like a doctor knows how to draw shards from a wound. Sherlock pressed his free fist into his mouth as he moaned, and Victor made a noise that vibrated around Sherlock’s cock, and he drew his fingers down Sherlock’s thighs.

Sherlock opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling, seeing stars in his vision. He moaned into his fist, the impending orgasm growing in his gut. One of Victor’s hands moved from his thigh to Sherlock’s arse, and he massaged at his arsehole, not trying to penetrate it but tease Sherlock enough to make him cry out.

Victor pushed his finger just enough that Sherlock’s body stuttered, and he came harder than he had in months. Victor never pulled away from Sherlock when he came, so he swallowed what he could, and came up with swollen lips and lines of spit and come running down his chin. He got up, taking the discarded towel with him. Sherlock watched him leave and began dressing again, only taking the offered towel to clean up.

Victor watched him with his shirt on but unbuttoned, covering his arms but not his shoulders, and he grabbed the edges of Sherlock’s shirt and kissed him again. Sherlock kissed him back, melting back into the touch. He let his hand dance down Victor’s chest to his cock, which was still hard and waiting. He wrapped his hand around it, stroking slowly, and kissing him harder. Victor’s fingers tightened on his shirt with each stroke, until he broke the kiss to breathe. Sherlock pressed his forehead against Victor’s, listening to his moans as he watched his hand move.

“Sherlock...” Victor said breathlessly, his hips moving slowly as Sherlock stroked. “Don’t stop... Don’t ever stop doing this...”

“No.” Sherlock replied, and Victor cried out softly. A warm wet fell onto Sherlock’s cheek and chest, and he realised that Victor was crying.

“I love you,” Victor whispered, his voice wet with tears. “I love you, I love you, I love you, I—Fuck, Sherlock...” His voice broke on a moan, and he thrust his hips into Sherlock’s fist faster. “I-I... God...!”

He came with a sob, and Sherlock had to move quickly to catch it so it didn’t soil his shirt. He removed himself from Victor and cleaned his hands, and checked to make sure he had no distinctive marks on him before going back out to dress. He ran right into Victor, who pressed himself into Sherlock and cried. It was awkward, to say the least, but Sherlock made the appropriate noises and gestures.

“You need to sleep,” Sherlock said softly. “You haven’t for days.”

“Will you come back with me...?” Victor’s voice was muffled by Sherlock’s shoulder and his emotion.

“You have a roommate, as do I. I can’t.” Sherlock pushed him back delicately. Victor nodded and wiped away the tears on his cheeks, laughing in embarrassment.

“Sorry,” he said. “I guess... I missed this. Will it... Happen again?”

No was Sherlock’s first answer, but he didn’t say that. We can’t was his second, but he didn’t say that either. John was his third, but that also wasn’t said. Sherlock kissed his forehead and finished dressing. Victor just nodded, and dressed as well. He pressed a kiss to Sherlock’s lips with a sad smile and he left. Sherlock watched him go, and once the door closed the monster roared.

Sherlock’s thoughts tore through him, a million words jumbled together and not making sense. His hands shook as he tried to filter them all, and every scar on his body seemed to burst. He paced the room, ripping his hands through his curls, trying to slow the head down, trying to stop the darkness spreading. He ran from the room, desperately trying to find a weapon.

He went up to where he and John were staying, and found the door propped open with one of the bedside tables. Sherlock pushed the door open, and found John asleep in the fading candlelight. He could hardly even look at John without the monster screaming, so instead he walked directly over to the small desk against the wall and took John’s gun. He didn’t bother leaving a note; there was no real point. He checked to see if the gun was loaded, before quietly leaving the room, and then the hotel.

Darkness had met Glasgow with a chilling embrace. There were no lights, and the rain made it even harder to see. Sherlock didn’t care. He just walked in the general direction they had arrived in, listening to the sounds of the dead city around him.

The sound of groaning and choked wheezing caught his attention from his right, and he followed it to the source. Three walkers were shuffling towards the same target. Sherlock stood and took aim. He killed one before attracting the attention of the other two, and possibly others that were around. The others began moving towards him but he shot the second with ease. The third one wasn’t as quick, and it lashed out at him, making choked noises and clicking its jaw fervently. Sherlock raised his gun and shot it too. He looked over to the place the three walkers were heading for.

A woman was there, and she was curled around herself, sobbing. Sherlock moved closer, aware of the blood now covering him. She looked up at him and he saw that she too was covered in blood, and quite heavily pregnant.

“Help me!” she cried.


End file.
